Shades of Comfort
by Ghost4
Summary: Sam and Dean hit a few snags while running an errand for Bobby. H/C Rating for language.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Shades of Comfort

Author: Ghost4

Disclaimer: I don't own them, I'm making no money. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Author's Note: This was supposed to be a little one shot to get me through a small case of writers block. While on a chat, I asked everyone (two Sam!girls, one Dean!girl, and one Brothers!girl) what their favorite H/C was. The responses I received were: Concussion, Restraints, Intubations, and Blood-loss. The idea was to write a little H/C piece using everyone's favorite type of injury. Short and fun. *sigh*. Not so much.

So this is dedicated to my chat buddies… hope you guys like it.

Also: for anyone who is worried - this fic is complete. I'm posting as I edit. I will still be working on Parting Shot.

As always: Any responses, good, bad, or indifferent, are very welcome.

* * *

Dust. Not just he smell of it, the thin, dirt-like undertone to the air – but also the feel of it, gritty and coating his nose, his throat. He frowned, not really conscious yet but aware that something was wrong with the air. Each breath irritated; moldy and dry, and eventually it was enough to make his lungs rebel and he coughed.

Pain. Horrible, crippling pain ripped though his head. The massive throb of it made him gasp, which made him inhale more dust, which made him cough, which brought more pain. It was a vicious, endless cycle and it was going to kill him, his head was just going to shatter leaving nothing more than a broken skull full of dust….

Unconsciously he started to reach up, to try and cover his mouth or rub his eyes – but his hand only came up a few inches before something caught it, held it.

The fear did what the dust and pain could not, and Dean came fully awake, forcing his eyes open past the blinding pain in his skull and yanking to free his hands.

It didn't work. He was bound, restrained by something that creaked like old leather and twisted around each wrist and his feet. Carefully, he took a breath, calming himself and trying to figure out where he was and what had happened.

It felt like he was laying on some sort of thin bed. It smelled like he was strapped down to a pile of moldy, rusty blankets. The whole thing shifted and rattled when he moved. It all added up to one creepy-ass image: gurney. He was strapped to an old medical gurney. Well, wasn't that just _perfect_.

At least he remembered where he was now.

Kentucky. Freaking DeLanney Park Sanatorium. An old, long abandoned TB camp from back in the thirties.

This was all freaking Bobby's fault. And Sam's. And the idiot brigade's. It was _all_ their faults that he was trussed up on a freaking gurney like a hog on a butcher's table.

See if he _ever_ did them any more favors.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't Sam's fault. But damn it, he was having a lousy night and somebody had to pay…and Bobby was too far away. So he was going to blame Sam by default.

Dean pulled again at the old restraints, hearing the brittle leather creak and feeling the hardened edges dig into the skin of his wrists. And the straps might be old, but they still knew their job, and Dean stayed bound to the table.

He would have beat his head against the thin mattress in frustration, but even the thought of the shockwave of that soft impact was enough to make his head throb and his stomach churn.

He knew the feel of a bruised brain very well, and diagnosed himself with a low grade concussion. Enough to hurt, enough to make him miserable…but not enough to stop him from moving if – when – he needed to. Thank god for small favors.

He tallied up his options. He could go back to sleep; just close his eyes and let the pain fade away – though he was pretty sure that was actually a craptastic idea, since he had no inkling about which of the freaking army of deadites had put him here in the first place, or when it would be back.

He could fight the fetters, tear the hell out of his wrists; and get nowhere, because the restraints were pretty damned restraining.

Or he could maybe rock the gurney, tip it over…and end up face down in the dust, still tied to the freaking table. He couldn't see how that would help, really.

He could scream.

He thought about it, sucking his teeth and staring up into the dark. If he screamed he might get Sam. He really wanted Sam. Sam could fix this. Sam _should_ fix this; it was all his fault anyway.

But screaming might draw in whatever had tied him up to this bed in the first place, so no. Besides, the way his head felt, making that much noise might just be the last straw and pop his skull open like a rotted melon. Man, his head hurt. Maybe closing his eyes, just for a second, wasn't such a bad plan after all.

No. No. No way was he gonna just lay here like some kind of damsel in distress when there were ghoulies just begging to have their asses kicked.

He kicked and struggled, pulling at the straps on his wrists, fighting the binding around his ankles. Blood began to run. He yanked harder. He gave one more massive wrench – and the gurney tottered. He froze, hands clamping onto the sides of his narrow prison, eyes wide in the dark as he waited to see if he was about to faceplant on the floor….

The gurney wobbled, a motion that went straight to Dean's already uneasy stomach – and man, he _so_ did not want to blow chunks while strapped down flat on his back – then it settled back on all four of its wheels with a solid _thunk_.

Dean took a deep, relived breath. Not falling onto his face while his hands were bound was a good thing all by itself, but if the gurney had gone over it most likely would have dislocated his shoulder. Again.

He just laid back for a minute, riding out the wave of nauseous pain that followed any movement of his head. He was trapped; helpless and vulnerable and alone in the dark.

This was so not good.

He thought about it for maybe half a second… then started struggling again. He kicked. He thrashed. He bucked.

Eventually, lightheaded with pain and breathless with exertion, he had to stop. Little white sparks danced through his vision, matching the throb of his heart and the beat of pain in his skull. The bands holding him weren't even a little bit looser.

Well, that was just freaking awesome.

He laid his head back puffing out a frustrated breath.

So much for option one. Time for option two.

"SAMMY!"

***


	2. Chapter 2

***

_SIXTEEN HOURS EARLIER _

**

Sam was just closing his cell as Dean wandered back to the car. The rest stop just outside of Louisville, Kentucky was a pit, but there was no way that Dean could have made it all the way to Honset, Ohio without a bathroom break.

"Who was on the phone," Dean asked idly, leaning against Sam's door and turning his face up to the sun for a moment. They'd been in the car for days, and it felt good to stretch for just a minute.

Sam's phone didn't ring often anymore; most of his college friends had slipped out of contact. So when Sam's phone did ring, it was usually about a hunt.

"Bobby. He has an errand for us." Sam sounded half amused, half skeptical.

It was the skeptical tone that caught Dean's attention. People in their line of work didn't indulge in that often, and Sam had never really sounded that way about anything that Bobby said.

"An errand, huh," Dean asked. "What errand?"

Sam grinned. "He wants us to make a quick stop in Kentucky. He needs us to pick up a book for him."

"A book?"

Sam's grin got bigger. "Yeah. A copy of the _Veneficium Trunca._"

Dean blinked, his eyebrows shooting up. "The _Veneficium Trunca_? One of the most dangerous spell books ever written? The one that even most _hunters_ think is only a myth. That _Veneficium Trunca_?"

"Yep." Sam's face was going to split if he kept grinning like that.

Dean was floored. "No shit?"

"No shit."

"Well…. Wow."

"Yeah."

Dean shook his head. "But…where did he find it? Some estate sale? Some little occult book shop?"

"E-bay."

"E-bay?" Dean scoffed. "Okay, now I know you're having on me."

"No, dude. Seriously," Sam laughed. "I looked it up. The guy has it listed as a text book from the eighteen hundreds. He has absolutely no idea what it is. He's asking fifty bucks for it."

Fifty bucks for the _Veneficium Trunca_: the "poisonous magic of the maimed". Everyone who lived in their circle, everyone who knew the truth of what was really in the dark, knew the story… ridiculous as it was.

Lore stated that the _Veneficium Trunca_ had originally been written in the twelfth century by a Germanic monk. He'd been involved with a group of witches – supposedly not bad people, just rural folks who had chosen to keep the old ways rather than convert to Christianity. The witches had invited the monk into their coven, to prove that they were not evil… but he turned on them, selling them out to the Abbot. It had been a death-sentence for the coven. The witches has suffered long weeks of horrible torture and forced confessions, then execution by burning.

The coven had been locked up together in the basement of the church while they were 'interrogated' by the good church-men. They had been too weak to escape… but not to cast. According to the story, the witches had pulled out all the darkest magic and cursed the monk with it, pushing it into his head, forcing him to compulsively write it out in an attempt to purge the demonic knowledge. When the other monks found him, he had filled page after page with the writings and was down to scribbling on his cell walls. His fellow monks had sentenced him to the same pyre that he had condemned the coven to.

According to the story, the monks had burned the book along with its author; not knowing that the cursed monk had already produced four other copies.

The copies of the book had floated in and out of history for awhile. One was reputed to be lost in the holy-land during the crusades. One was supposedly owned by Josef Mengele. And there were rumors that a copy had been possessed by Anthony Fish, the serial killer who ate children in the 1930's.

They were only stories, though. Most hunters were agreed that the _Veneficium Trunca_ was just a legend. A ghost-story for the people who hunted ghosts. Even _if_ the book existed at all, consensus was that it was probably just a simple spell book that leaned toward the evil side of magic.

And now Bobby had found it.

Dean felt an odd mix of excitement and loathing. "Dude, it's like finding the holy-grail. Only not holy, and more cursed. The anti-grail."

Sam gave him an amused look. "The anti-grail?" He shook his head. "Whatever. Bobby wants us to check it out; and snag it, if the book's legit. We need to go get it before someone else takes it, and gets themselves in trouble."

"We have an address?"

Sam held a piece of paper through his open window.

"Awesome. Let's go catch us a legend."

***


	3. Chapter 3

***

"That old book? I don't have it anymore." The guy didn't bother to look away from the computer screen as he spoke to them. He hadn't looked up from the screen since he'd let Dean and Sam in; he'd just yanked open the door, and let them trail him back to his computer.

"You don't have it…" Dean repeated. Sam and Dean shared a look. Dean sighed. "Do you know who does?"

The guy jabbed a button on his mouse so fiercely that Dean frowned, worried about the plastic giving. The guy whooped. "Did you see that? Did you see that? I _totally_ shot that guy in the face! Powned his ass! Ha!"

Sam rolled his eyes, fighting a derisive grin. Dean just shook his head.

"Yeah. You're awesome. Now about that book…"

"I sold it to this guy."

"'This guy'." Dean rubbed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Could you be more specific?"

The gamer worked the keyboard in a quick, loud rattle. His words came in an equally quick burst, his eyes locked on his screen. "Just this guy, you know? He's in my comparative religion class. Couple of days ago I took the book to campus – to have this girl I know translate the title. I've had that thing up for sale for _months_, but no takers. I thought if I translated the title on the listing, someone might get interested, you know?" He twisted his wrist, changing the view on the screen. He leaned in closer, hunching in a way that had Dean's own back twingeing in sympathy.

"Anyway," he continued, "Owen, this creepy little goth geek, he saw it in my pack and offered to buy it then and there. I told him it was his for a hundred bucks. He gave me the money, I gave him the book. It was total win-win. He got the book, and I got the expansion set." He pushed a button and the machine gun on the screen rattled off virtual bullets. "I so totally rock," the guy muttered to himself, eyes glued to the game.

Dean's head hurt. And Sam's silent snickering wasn't helping. Dean sighed.

"Does Owen have a last name?"

***

Owen's dorm room was everything Dean hated. Black and red, and reeking of patchouli, his shelves were lined with modern 'spell' books – which Dean was sure were filled with useless little rhymes. He had pentacles drawn on his mirror, and a dream-catcher looped over one of the curtain rods, where it would never catch the sun, and never do any good.

Dean huffed. "Owen is a douche, dude."

Sam nodded, absently flipping through one of Owen's texts. They had tossed the room, and there was no sign of the _Veneficium Trunca._ "Yeah. He probably has no idea what he bought, let alone how to use it."

"Think we're safe to just hang out and get the book from him when he turns up tonight?" Dean asked. He couldn't imagine it would be a long wait, there was no way Owen got enough play to hook-up on a regular basis. He should be back as soon as his classes let out.

Sam shrugged in response. "Yeah, I mean we might as well. If anything, he probably took the book to get it translated…but I doubt anybody here would know what it was. And so long as Owen doesn't speak Latin, he can't use it anyway." Sam slammed the book. "So we wait?"

"We wait." Dean sat down on the bed.

"Are you guys waiting for Owen?"

Dean jumped up, turning his best 'we are totally harmless' smile on the blood co-ed who had suddenly appeared in the doorway.

"Hi. Yeah, we're his cousins. We just got in town, and thought he might like to go out tonight."

She frowned. "He didn't say you guys were coming."

Sam smiled – and Dean had never understood how a guy who was so big could suddenly look so defenseless and harmless. It just wasn't fair; and the women _always_ responded to it, it was ridiculous – and she just melted. "We didn't tell him we were coming. We didn't really plan the trip, and we didn't want to disappoint him if we couldn't get this far north. You don't happen to know when he'll be back, do you?"

She shook her head. "Normally, he'd be in right now; but he and his ghost-group had some sort of overnight thing planned."

Dean's ears pricked. "Ghost-group?"

She snorted. "Yeah, it's no big deal. He and a couple of other… _unique_ types, they go out to local haunted places and try to catch the spooks on tape." She laughed softly.

"Do you know when he leaves for this little trip?" Sam asked. "Or if he'll stop by here before he goes?"

She looked sympathetic. "He probably already left. He was so excited. They were gong to try some kind of ritual to summon the spirits," she wiggled her fingers dramatically. "He took his gear with him to his Latin class, so he's probably not planning to come back here tonight."

Dean felt the slow, creeping sensation of his luck turning sour. "Of course he left right after his Latin class. First year?"

She nodded. "And he's making a strong 'C'. That's really good for a dead language."

Sam was the one who looked like he had a headache now. In hunter terms that made Owen a person who knew just enough to be dangerous: enough to be able to pronounce the Latin properly, but not enough to know what the hell he was saying.

Well, hell. The Winchester luck strikes again.

Dean sighed. "You don't happen to know where they were having this little shindig, do you?" he asked the blond tiredly.

***


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Shades of Comfort

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine. No, really.

Author's Note: Sorry about the delay. I was working on something that had a time limit, so I just got the editing done on this today. Hope you enjoy.

As always: All comments, good, bad, or indifferent are welcome.

* * *

***

The DeLanney Park Sanatorium was everything Dean hated in a site. It was spread out – seven old and decaying buildings on a twenty acre lot. The ground between them was overgrown and covered with a tangle of weeds and scrub trees. The buildings were marked by their shared history of illness, sadness, pain and grief. The feel of all those who had suffered was still in the air around the place, held in only by the rusty chain-link that was designed to keep people out.

The only thing that this place had going for it was that it _wasn't_ haunted. Not a peep. Not a rumor. Not even a sniff of a ghost story, even after seventy years. The place was just…dead space. Old, and sad, and completely nil on the supernatural level.

DeLanney Park, according to the quick bout of research Sam had done, had been commissioned in 1898 as a sanitary facility to house Tuberculosis patients. Back before the advent of antibiotics the infection had been rampant, and deadly. The only thing that the doctors had been able to do for TB sufferers was to lock them away where they couldn't infect others. Mothers separated from children, children from parents, brothers, sisters, fathers, aunts… it was no wonder there was an air of lingering sadness to the place.

The facility had been closed in 1938. After that, it had been abandoned. No one wanted land that had held the contaminated for so long. And no one needed the buildings anymore. DeLanney Park had sat quietly and completely vacant for all the long years since. The place was empty and abandoned, even by the dead. No lingering spirits wandered its halls.

"So, if there are no ghosts, what the hell are the _ghost-hunters_ doing here, dude?" Dean finally demanded as the two walked the fence.

Next to him, Sam shrugged. "Maybe they don't know it's not haunted? I mean, if you were going to pick one place around here to try and summon ghosts…"

"I guess," Dean said, doubtfully. "But there isn't even any EMF here. It's a damned dead zone for the dead."

There was a break in the fence just a few feet from the rusted and chained gate. Dean lifted the wire as Sam ducked through, and Sam did the same for him. It was as habitual and unconscious as breathing.

Once inside, they headed toward the cluster of buildings. Dean atomically checked his pistol. It and his knives were all he was carrying, since there were no spooks to deal with; just crazy-ass people – which was actually worse, in Dean's opinion.

"So," Dean said, pushing his clip home and holstering his pistol. "If you were a sad, pathetic little Goth trying to summon ghost, which part of this maze would you head for?"

Sam gave him a look.

"Morgue," they said at the same time.

As a hospital facility – one that catered to patients who had a terminal illness – a morgue had sort of been necessary. From Sam's research they knew the basic layout of the place. The buildings consisted of three dormitories (men, women, and children), an administration building, a commissary, a dispensary (that doubled as the medical staff's sleeping quarters), and a hospital ward. That one was the long, low construction at the back of the compound. It had been the last stop for most patients as they slowly choked to death on their own blood. The morgue was in the basement.

Sam and Dean approached the morgue carefully. Dim, distant sunlight found its way down, sneaking thorough holes and cracks in the foundations. As Sam and Dean slipped downstairs, that light had taken on the golden hue of early sun-set.

In front of them, the large double doors of the morgue had been pulled open, leaving fresh arcs in the dust. Light spilled out into the hallway. Both brothers slowed as voices echoed from the room.

"So, you're sure this is going to work?"

Dean hesitated, taking up a place just beside the open door. Sam moved into position on the other side.

"Yes, Derek, this is going to work," said a new voice, also male, but softer than the first. "At least it _should_ work."

"It'll work, Owen." And Dean frowned at the sound of a teary female. "It has to work! The spirits here are so restless. They're in so much pain! We have to help them!"

Dean gave Sam an incredulous look. Sam rolled his eyes.

"Relax, Gillian," 'Derek' said. "We have to set up the cameras first, in case this works."

"It'll work, damnit!" Owen snapped.

"Just hurry, Owen…. It's so hard for me to be in here. I feel like I can't breathe, there are so _many_ spirits here! This is not a good place for sensitives. I shouldn't have come!" She gasped dramatically.

"We needed three for the ritual, Gilly. We needed you. Hang on for just a minute more. Derek, get in your place. We only have one more thing to do."

That was it. Dean had heard enough. This wasn't a cabal of evil magic-users. This was just a group of dumb-asses.

Dean jerked his head toward the door, and Sam nodded. They pulled the guns. They had a quick planning session, using a flash of hand gestures, and then they moved – Dean sliding through the right door and into the left side of the room, while Sam crossed from the left door to the right side.

The three people inside froze in shock. On the dirty floor was a sigil drawn in chalk, one Dean didn't recognize. Candles had been arranged along its edges. An older male in fashion jeans and a zip-up sweater was gaping at them from the far side of the room. Closest to them was a girl wearing crystals. At the head of the triangle, where the lines of the sigil spun into a nexus, was a scrawny kid in tight black pants and too much eyeliner. All of them were kneeling; the kid had a small brazier in front of him and a bunch of herbs in his hand. A small, brown book lay open on the floor where he could easily read form it. He frowned at them.

"Who the hell are you?"

**

The details would later play back for Dean in slow motion. He saw Sam's eyes flicker over the ritual gear, and Dean saw his eyes widen. Then Derek shifted and drew Dean's attention, but out of the corner of his eye he could see Sam holding up his hands, trying to sooth the situation.

"Hey," Sam said, and he sounded like someone trying to talk a jumper off a ledge, soft and firm. "Hey, now, Owen?" The Goth kid only frowned harder. "Look, Owen," Sam continued, "I don't know what you're trying to do, but this? It will only end badly. You need to stop, right now."

Owen glared at him with all the self-righteousness of a thwarted teen. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Believe me, I do; and you're about to make a major mistake." Sam took a shuffling step forward, edging closer to the chalk lines of the sigil. Dean knew from the way Sam's eyes were flicking to the lines that Sam planned on rubbing out one of the marks. If he could break just one of those chalk lines, he could disrupt the ritual before it finished. Dean shifted a bit, ready to back his play. Dean didn't recognize the sigil, but if it scared Sam then he had no doubt that it was dangerous.

"Stop moving!" Owen shouted. He lowered the herb bundle closer to the flames in the brazier. "I know what I'm doing! I'm going to call the ghosts! I'm going to prove that I'm not crazy; that I'm not a joke!" And Dean saw the resolve flood his features. Part of him, the part of him that sounded like his father, was demanding that he shoot; that he end this before it could really start – because he knew, he _knew_ – the kid was going to finish it.

Still, his hand hesitated. It was just a kid after all, a kid who had no idea what he was doing.

"They'll never laugh at me again," Owen said tightly. And as Dean wavered, he dropped the bundle into the flames, throwing his head back and shouting: "_Umbris patefacio via voco preteritus_!"

There was a flash – not bright, but dark, as if all the light in the room was suddenly sucked inward, toward the nexus of the glyph. It reflected back, almost like a glare made up of shadow rather then light. Dean's eyes ached, throbbing in reaction to the sudden spectrum change. He flinched, automatically shutting his eyes and turning his head against the non-glare. He heard the girl scream, but the sound was oddly distant and warped.

He blinked his eyes open for faction of a second, to glimpse the room flickering with shapes – human figures that walked through one another, mindlessly – and then the pool of darkness erupted outward in a concussive force so hard and fast it was like getting hit by a freight train.

And then there was nothing but darkness.

**


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Shades of Comfort

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine. No, really.

Author's Note: Just a random explanation: I wrote this as stress relief during several chats. Therefore, the chapters tend to be short and almost too fast. I have been putting multiple chapters together, to create longer reads (I find that more satisfying myself), but I honestly thing that this reads better in short bursts. So numerous, short chapters it is! Let me know if I'm wrong and I'll look into changing the format.

As always: All comments, good, bad, or indifferent are welcome.

* * *

**

_NOW_

**

"Sammy!" Dean cried out again, bucking against the straps that bound him to the ancient gurney. Dean wasn't sure how long he'd been out, but it had been long enough that the sun had set and what little light had crept into the old building had long since receded. Dean glared into the dark, his head throbbing and his stomach churning and his temper shredding. "Sammy, get me _out_ of here!"

There was a shift in the shadows near the door. Dean's jaw snapped shut. It probably wasn't Sammy – not a tentatively as it was moving. Which begged the question of what the hell it might be.

Dean's heart sped, a fine sweat breaking out over his lip. Facing nasties in the dark was one thing; being hogtied to a surgeons table while they crept closer was another – and something he could do without, thank you very much. He increased his struggles against the thinly padded cuffs encircling his wrists as quietly as he could.

A foot scrapped. The door swung slowly open, just a bit – a sliver of lighter black in the darkened room. A shape filled that sliver, and Dean felt his body tense up, adrenaline flooding his system getting him ready for a fight that he was in no position to have….

"H-hello?" came a tremulous voice from the hall. "Is anyone there?"

Dean sagged back on the dirty mattress, all the fight draining from him in one heavy sigh. "Thank God," he muttered, never so happy to see an incompetent, new-aged air-head. Ever. "I'm here! Yeah, I'm here. Hey, what's your name? Sissy? Cassie? Sandra?"

"Gillian."

Dean's brow furrowed. Really? He shook his head. "Whatever. I need your help, okay? I'm tied down, and I can't get loose. Just come over here and undo these straps, okay?" He rattled the cuffs for emphasis.

"You're not Owen," she sniffled through the open door.

"I'm Dean."

"I don't know who you are!" she shouted brokenly. "You and that other guy, you just burst in, and then those _things_…" She started crying openly. "They were everywhere. They took you and Owen and that other guy! And Derek said not to go, but I have to find Owen! I have to! I just have to! But it's so dark! And those things are there – every time I turn around, they're there, and I can't find him, I only found you. And you two messed up the ritual, and now those things are going to kill him! They're going to kill us all…"

"Gillian," Dean started desperately, "Gillian, calm down, okay. Look. I'm Dean. Me and my brother, Sam, we take care of monsters and evil things. It's sort of our job. We didn't mess up your ritual –"

"You did!" she argued. "You came in and the spirits got angry!"

Dean bit back his exasperation. "Look, sweetheart, it wasn't us that caused this. We were trying to stop you. That book Owen was using is full of evil magic."

"No," she said again. "No. He would never use evil magic."

"He probably didn't know."

She scoffed though her tears. "No way. Owen is, like, an occult _expert_. He would know. He would never do _this_…"

Dean huffed, leaning back. Occult expert. Super. "Look," Dean snapped, "whether you believe me or not, are you just going to leave me tied down here? Helpless?" When she hesitated, Dean tried again, biting back his temper and keeping his voice low. "You said they took Sam – the other guy with me? He's my brother. I need to go find him. Please."

She sniffed again… but she finally started moving. She inched her way through the dark room, objects on the floor clattering away as she brushed them. She squeaked at each contact.

The last thing he needed was her shutting down or running, at least until she undid these damned straps. He needed to keep her talking. "Gillian? How you doing?"

"F-fine." Something else fell down. She sobbed, a harsh, broken bark of a sound that she quickly cut off.

"Uh-huh," he said, noting the shaking voice. "Look, it's going to be okay, you know that, Gillian? Right?"

"H-how?" she near wailed.

"Because you're going to get me loose, and we're going to find Sam, and then Sam and I are going to stop this. That's how it works, sweetheart."

She bumped into the gurney. "Is that how it works?"

"Always."

He could feel her working the stiff leather loose. "Okay."

His right hand came free – wonderfully and miraculously free. Almost shuddering with relief, Dean reached over unbuckling his other hand as Gillian worked on the strap across his ankles.

"Can we find Owen, too?" she asked.

"We'll find Owen, too," Dean agreed. Finally loose, he sat up and scrambled off of the bed from hell. Between the concussion and the lingering stiffness, his legs buckled and he dropped with a muttered curse, catching himself on the gurney before he could hit the floor.

Gillian grabbed at him. "Are you okay?"

"Never better," he groaned, pushing himself to his feet. He took a couple of breaths, waiting for the vertigo to pass. Then he took the girl's hand, flicking his lighter into flame. "C'mon, sweetheart, lets go find your boyfriend."

As he guided her from the room she sniffled: "He's not really my boyfriend."

**


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Shades of Comfort

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine. No, really.

As always: All comments, good, bad, or indifferent are welcome.

* * *

**

"Sammy!"

Dean had been dragging the girl through the halls for only a few minutes, but already he was tired of sheparding her. Each time he called out for his little brother, she yanked his arm, and the torn skin on his wrist flared and burned.

They approached a corner, and the little twit grabbed his arm and tugged on him again.

His temper flared with the wounds. "What's wrong now?" he demanded.

"They're going to be there! Just around the corner! They're always just around the corners!" Her voice was a sibilant hiss as she yelled in whispers. It irritated him and he sighed.

"Look, if they are, I'll deal with them, okay?"

Even as he said the words, the shadows around the tee in the hallway shifted, almost slithered, and his pulse jumped instinctively.

As Gilly grabbed on to his arm like a vice, he glanced around briefly and picked up an old iron pipe from the litter on the floor. Not as good as rock salt shells, but it would do in a pinch.

He slid up to the corner, Gilly trembling behind him.

A shadowy figure turned the corner. It was black, a silhouette in the dark. Female in form, it turned toward them, walking briskly down the hall. As it got closer Dean realized he could see no face, no features… the moving shadow held no details past the outline of rustling skirts. The face was a blank oval, the hair a vague mass. Gillian squeaked, huddling against him as he put out an unconscious arm, sweeping her back against the wall. He stood slightly in front of her, pressing her back as the figure strode down the hall…

And passed them, without so much as a flicker of awareness.

Dean's head dropped as he puffed out a relived breath.

"You have got to be kidding me," he muttered. Then he turned to Gillian, who was still shaking, her hand shoved in her mouth to keep from making a noise. "Gilliain? Hey!" He reached up and turned her head, forcing her eyes away from the shadow walking down the hall. "Hey, look at me."

She blinked wet eyes and focused.

"Okay, were they all like that?" Dean asked her. "Were they all hollow like that?"

She nodded, her head jerking like a badly worked puppet. "All of them; all…empty, all needing, all evil."

Dean rolled his eyes. "They're Shades." He started forward again, now walking quickly, talking to himself. She hurried to keep up. "I should have known it. _Umbra_, not _Phasmatis_ or even _Lemuris_. He never summoned ghosts, just freaking walking shades." He could have smacked himself.

"I don't understand," Gillian hitched. They rounded the corner, the new hall in front of them filled with the dark, airy shapes. She flinched, but Dean kept right on walking.

"They're shades, Gillian. The lights are on but nobody's home. They don't even know we're here." Even as Dean spoke, they had gotten close to where one of the shadows was slumping against the wall, apparently smoking a cigarette. Dean reached out, waving his hand in front of its oddly blank face. "Hey! Hello? Anybody in there?" He ran a hand through its head while Gillian gasped. It didn't react.

"See," Dean said, backing down. "They're not really there, Gillian." He rubbed his aching head. The shades were in no way dangerous…but it also meant that his pistol and knife were about as useful as binoculars to a blind man.

"But, but," Her eyes darted around the cluster of figures. "But we summoned ghosts! We called out the wounded spirits of this place."

Dean snorted. "Wounded spirits?" he arched an eyebrow. "That's… poetic." His tone made it clear just what he thought of poetry. He shook his head. "There aren't any wounded spirits in this place, Gillian."

"Yes there were, I could feel them calling out for me! They were lost, and hurting, and we came to help them!"

Dean gave her a look. "Whatever you _felt_, sweetheart, it wasn't ghosts. This place _was_ empty. This was a good place that did good work, and when the people died, they went on to wherever the hell it is that dead people go. Nobody stuck around here, Gillian. Nobody needed to."

She stomped her foot. She actually stomped her foot. Dean didn't think he'd ever seen anyone do that outside of a TV show before. "If there are no ghosts, then what do you call those!" she pointed at the shadow people.

"I call those shades. Not ghosts, not spirits. Just shades."

"What's the difference?'

Dean smirked. "Ghosts are people – dead people, angry people, dangerous people – but people. Or what's left of people. Point is, ghosts _think_. Not all of them are real bright, but they have wants and desires and needs; things that they're willing to kill for. Shades…don't." Dean shone his light into an empty room, and then continued down the hall. "A shade isn't anything but a memory – and not even that, really. More like a rut."

"A rut?"

"Yep. People wear a sort of psychic path in places – especially buildings like this, where life was probably pretty scheduled and regimented. If somebody releases a bunch of spiritual energy, it flows into those ruts like water trying to fill up a pothole. Dump enough energy, and you'll start to see the memories, the patterns, of the people who lived, worked, and died in a place. Spooky, but hollow."

"We dumped enough energy?" Gillian asked.

Two more of the featureless freaks walked past them, went about halfway down the hall and disappeared into a closed door. "Honey, that ritual of yours seems to have caused a flood."

Gillian had squirmed as they passed, but at least she'd stopped crying. She cleared her throat. "So, so if these things are just ruts, just memories, then how did they carry you and Owen and your brother off?"

It was a good question. And one Dean had been avoiding asking himself. Couldn't anything just be easy?

"I don't know," Dean admitted after a pause. "I don't know how they could do that. I don't know why they're still here. I've never heard of shades lasting more than a couple of hours at the most." The sun had been up when he'd gotten knocked out. It was down now. That meant that at least an hour had passed, and the shades looked pretty damned solid.

Something was weird about these shades…and Dean knew that if Sam was here he could probably tell them not only how come the shades were still going, but how they had physically carried three people and tied at least one of them to a table.

Which was just another reason to find Sam.

No time like the present, Dean supposed. "SAMMY!"

Gillian jumped at his shout, and shot him a dirty look. He shrugged. The lighter was getting uncomfortably hot in his fingers. He needed to find some cloth and make a torch…

_Dea –_

Dean eyes widened and he froze. "Did you hear that?" he asked Gillian, no longer feeling the heat from the lighter.

A light flickered on; a dull line of it seeping under the crack in that door that the two shades had just slipped through.

"_Dean!"_

No mistaking it that time. That time the cry was loud – and panicked. Dean sprinted for the door, source of the light and his brother's cry for help.

**


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Shades of Comfort

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine. No, really. In no way, shape or form. But man, how I wish…

As always: All comments, good, bad, or indifferent are welcome.

* * *

**

"Sam!" Dean called out, hitting the door. The knob – an old fashioned round brass number built before the disabilities laws had required the simpler push levers – refused to turn.

"It's locked?" Gillian questioned, running up behind him.

"Or rusted." Either way the effect was the same. It was keeping him from Sam. Inside he could hear a scuffle, not unlike the same muted rattle Dean had made struggling against the restraints when he came to.

He shoved the lighter at Gillian, to free his hands. She gasped at she took it. "Sammy? You in there?" he called through the door.

"No," Dean heard, "No! _Dea_-_!"_

The horrified cry was severed by a broken, choking sound. The scuffling got worse.

"SAM!"

Dean kicked at the door, a jolt that he felt in his knee, in his hip, and in a sickening echo in his aching head. He cursed when the door didn't give. He kicked it again.

The door finally gave way and Dean stumbled inside. The room was bright, the surgical lamps shining clearly despite the lack of electricity or bulbs. The glow only highlighted the years of grime and debris that cluttered the floor and walls. In roughly the center of the room lay Sam – he was strapped down, bound to a gurney. He twisted and struggled as three shades bent over him. One held his head as a second held out a dirty tray. The third was working on him, hunched over him. Sam's hands worked helplessly at the straps, his skin tearing. Sam's eyes rolled, finding Dean, filled with pain and panic. The shade hunched over him moved, and Sam's eyes squeezed shut in agony. A muffled gagging noise came from him as the shade shoved a tube down his throat.

It took Dean maybe two seconds for his eyes to adjust and to see it all – and that was two seconds too long.

Dean was across the room in three strides, but still Sam's body arched and trembled as the shade pushed the tube further in.

Dean swung the iron pipe, aiming high, sweeping the metal through the shadows' heads. The shades flickered… then dissipated; not the way that a ghost would have, shrieking at the feel of the iron and already fighting to come back, but simply breaking apart, like he'd tossed a pebble into a smooth pond and upset the reflection.

He didn't waist time worrying about the difference. He just dropped the pipe and began working on the cuffs holding Sam down. Sam's eyes were open, but he was unconsciously struggling, making it harder for Dean to find the play he needed to unbuckle the restraint.

"Easy, Sammy," he soothed as he fumbled with the catch. "C'mon, work with me, dude." He glanced at Sam's face, feeling the dragging claw of real fear as Sam slowly started to turn dusky. His chest heaved as he struggled to breathe past the rubber tube running down his throat.

It was obvious that the shades had been intubating him for some reason. But they had been doing it while he was awake, and using an old rubber tube that probably dated to the thirties. Made in a time that predated modern plastics, the heavy rubber hadn't aged well, drying out and becoming stiff and brittle; the cut edges of it sharp as splintered stone.

The tube was vicious, and Sam looked to be in serious trouble, his airways impeded by the thickened rubber, the tissues of his throat and esophagus probably scrapped raw.

Dean bit his lip as he worked on the cuff, staring at the tube as Sam struggled. Dean had no idea what the hell to do about it. It wasn't like Sam could wait for the professionals to get here, but Dean was terrified that he'd really damage Sam's airways if he tried to pull it himself.

Sam saved him the worry. The buckle finally came loose, and Sam jerked his hand free. Before Dean could stop him, before Dean even realized he was going to, Sam instinctively reached up and yanked at the tube lodged in his throat. Dean grabbed at his hand, worried that he'd hurt himself. "No, Sam! Wait –"

But Sam had already pulled again, wrenching the thick, sharp-edged tube from his mouth, and tossing it away. In the same movement Sam curled up across his still bound arm, hunching over and retching. Dean winced at the blood that Sam hacked up, even while he moved down to start working on the buckle at Sam's feet.

"Sam? Sammy? You okay?"

Sam's only response was a hacking cough that had Dean grimacing in sympathy. Dean knew from bitter experience that being extubated hurt even when done by professionals with good drugs. He could only image how much pain pulling that thing had caused his little brother.

He finished freeing Sam's feet and went around the gurney to get his other hand. He ducked a bit to catch Sam's eye, as he rounded the table. "Hey, you breathing at least?"

Sam sat up as much as the cuff would let him, his eyes slitted with discomfort. He opened his mouth to speak, but what came out was a hoarse, strangled croak that had Sam grabbing at his throat, his face twisted in real pain.

"Whoa, okay. That looked less than pleasant," Dean observed, wincing and putting a hand on Sam's shoulder to steady him.

Sam gave him a weary look, then turned to the other side and spit red.

When he twisted back around, he just laid his head on Dean's shoulder while Dean worked at the cuff.

Dean really couldn't say that he minded the contact– even if he didn't care for the way Sammy was shaking. Sam's breath was warm and steady on Dean's neck, though it sounded a little labored and reedy. Dean patted him absently on the back, then doubled his efforts with freaking restraints from hell, pulling hard to try and free the metal tongue from the rusted bracket.

The last cuff came loose.

Sam wasted no time in scrambling from the gurney. Dean grabbed his shoulder again as he swayed, taking his weight while Sam found his feet.

Dean felt a low knot of tension fade as his brother sagged against him. Sam was here, and whole. He may be hurting, but he would be fine – and that meant Dean would be fine.

And with no more distractions, Dean felt himself settle into the hunt. It was past time for these freaking shadows to go back to being nothing more than shadows.

There was a noise at the door, a gritty scrape, and both Dean and Sam turned that way, Sam taking his own weight, freeing Dean's hands.

Gillian shuffled more fully into the room, looking them both over. "So, you guys are alright?"

Dean nodded as Sam shifted a little, testing his balance. "We're good."

Her face twitched. "Good, then can we find Owen and get the hell out of here? This place is creeping me the fuck out."

The lights went out.

"See! This is exactly what I meant!"

**


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Shades of Comfort

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Not mine. *is sad*

As always: All comments, good, bad, or indifferent are welcome.

* * *

**

Sam rubbed at his raw throat.

Everything hurt. Everything. His back ached, his head was throbbing, and his throat was on fire. Seriously. It felt thick and swollen and inflamed. He kept spiting because swallowing the saliva in his mouth was agonizing – and he was spitting red more often than not.

"Dude, you keeping up?" Dean asked. Sam was trailing him and the girl, his head still swimming with the after-effects of being tied down for hours and then having a seventy-year old tube jammed down his throat.

The shadows flickered and Sam's balance flickered with them. He staggered, automatically reaching for the wall…but Dean was there, catching him and keeping him upright as the world rolled lazily… then settled back into place.

"You okay?" Dean asked, his hands solid and supportive.

Sam nodded, not opening his eyes. He leaned against the wall, feeling nauseous. He really didn't want to get sick with his throat messed up. He really, really didn't.

"You are not okay," Dean said in a flat, almost resigned tone.

Sam opened his eyes, returning the flat look. He took one of Dean's hands, turning it over to display the raw cuts around his wrists. _You're not either._

Dean jerked his hand away. "Yeah, but I didn't have the crew from St. Elsewhere trying to debark me."

Sam arched his eyebrows incredulously. _Debark? Dude, seriously, where do you get this stuff? _

"Well, you know what I mean. You're walking wounded."

Sam glared at him, opening his mouth to snap a reply. What came out was only a torn kind of noise – and Sam felt the fire in his throat burst like a bottle full of napalm, coating everything in liquid flame. He leaned over, gratified but not surprised to find Dean waiting. He leaned against his brother, listening as Dean chanted: "Breathe, just breathe," quietly.

Sam thought that was pretty good advice.

After a couple of seconds, Sam pushed away, taking his own weight. Dean watched him cautiously. "So… want to tell me how you're really doing?"

Sam sighed. He held up a hand and waggled it, not meeting Dean's eyes.

"Check. It's just the throat? Your head's okay? You breathing all right?"

Sam rolled his eyes. _Worry-wart_.

Dean got his stubborn look. "Just tell me."

Sam held a hand to his head, and shrugged. He touched his chest and flashed a thumbs up. Laid a hand against his throat and winced.

Dean nodded, automatically checking the hall. "Okay, so no speaking, Sam."

Sam canted his head, glaring a bit. _I'm not an idiot, Dean_.

"Yeah, well, you're not exactly the silent type, either," Dean groused. Then he glanced up, looking serious. When he spoke, it was quietly, keeping his vice from carrying to the girl who was nervously picking through the debris a couple of feet down the hall. "They took me, you, and the chick's boyfriend. The geek who was leading the ritual. She took off from the morgue to find him. She's pretty shaky."

Sam nodded his understanding, biting his lip. She was flighty, and emotionally on edge. She was a walking accident in an environment like this, where the supernatural was active. Dean was warning him that they had to look out for her… and watch out _for_ her.

Dean turned anxious eyes on him again. "So those things that had you, they were shades, right? I mean, you think so too?"

Sam nodded.

Dean's eyes slid along the hall, then came back. When he spoke, he kept his voice low again. "So if they were just shades, how the hell are they moving things and taking people?"

Sam started to shrug… then hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he made a connection.

"What?" Dean asked. "What's gong on in that freaky head?"

Sam pulled a face, realizing that there was no way to tell Dean what he was thinking. He knew what he was gong to have to do… and he knew, once this was over, Dean would never let him live it down.

But he had to communicate somehow.

Sam made an irritated nose, gave Dean a warning look – then closed his eyes, letting his mouth fall open and his head lull. Then he looked back at Dean.

Dean smirked. "You trying to show me what your last date looked like?"

Sam rolled his eyes. He took a breath and tried again, tapping his chest and going through it all a second time.

He opened his eyes to find Dean gazing at him with impatient incomprehension. "Dude, I'm glad you got that acting crap out of your system in high-school, because you kind of suck."

Sam flipped him off. He struggled with his own frustration for a moment – then he turned to the wall. He ran his finger through the years of encrusted grim and got an obvious line.

That would work.

Quickly he sketched a stick figure, marking the eyes with an 'x'. For good measure he drew its tongue sticking out.

He looked at Dean expectantly.

"A dead guy?"

Sam blew out a rough breath. He added a squiggly line above its head and surrounded it with stars.

Dean grinned. "Like the cartoons. The guy is out cold."

Sam nodded, relieved. He touched his own chest. Then looked his question at Dean.

"Yeah, you were out; so was I. So was the Goth, according to his girl. The shades took us because we were unconscious. But how? Shades aren't supposed to be able to affect things physically. And why? Why would they? Shades never break pattern."

Sam snapped his fingers, pointing at the stick figure on the wall.

"Yeah? And?"

Sam wiped the figure off, then drew another one. This time with no eyes, and a pointy little hat.

"I don't get it," Dean confessed.

Sam sighed. He opened his mouth, but as soon as his throat tightened to engage his larynx the pain amplified to uncomfortable levels. He let the breath out in a frustrated huff. Sam bit his lip, thinking, then added an elongated 'y' shape with a circle at the bottom to his person. He watched Dean try to figure it out, willing him to understand so hard that he could feel his body tensing.

"Is that a stethoscope?" the girl asked, wandering up behind Dean, a long piece of sharp metal in her hand.

Sam nodded, the relief at being understood completely out of proportion to the message. Sam _hated_ not being heard.

"So that would be…a nurse?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded again, willing Dean to go a step farther, and knowing that he had no way to help unless he used his voice. Aware of how bad it was going to hurt, Sam pulled a breath and spoke, forcing the word through the razor blades in his throat: "Patterns."

**

Dean watched as Sam grabbed at his throat like something was trying to tear its way out, his eyes closed against the pain.

Dean started forward, ready to take his arm, "Sam…"

Sam jerked away, glaring. He smacked the drawing.

He was right. Dean needed to focus. As much as he would have like to just walk on out of here, collect Sam and head back to the motel and nurse his headache and his brother – they just couldn't. If these shades could interact on a physical level, and if they never faded away – then this place would become a deathtrap to any homeless person or curious kid who wandered through the doors.

Dean knew he couldn't live with that on his conscious…and neither could Sam. Which meant they had to get this solved now. Which meant Dean had to focus.

Dean took a breath and turned his attention to translating what Sam had been trying to tell them. Sam had said 'patterns'. Nurses and … "Patterns. The shades are filling the ruts left by medical people. So when we were knocked out, when we needed medical assistance, we moved into their patterns. We became real to them."

Sam nodded, looking relieved.

"And something happened that made them go all Angel of Death on you?"

Sam pulled a face. He knotted up a fist and mimed coughing.

"You coughed," Dean realized. "When you woke up, you coughed. And one was in the room?"

Sam nodded.

"So, being that they took care of tuberculosis patients, when you coughed you fit into a new pattern. Not just unconscious patient, but patient with breathing issues."

Sam's mouth tightened, his eyes direct and steady. _That's my guess_.

"Sweet," Dean muttered, meaning anything but.

"But how can they touch us – you – at all?" Gillian looked between them with frightened eyes. "Didn't you say that they can't touch things?"

Dean gave Sam a wry look. "It's a good question. Any ideas?"

Sam huffed at him, giving him a look that Dean easily translated.

"Hey, watch your language around a lady," Dean smirked.

Sam glared, obviously not amused. Then he put both palms together, before rocking them open like they were hinged.

"It's a book!" Gillian exploded in his ear. Dean winced at the volume. Sam smirked this time, arching an eyebrow.

"Shut up," Dean muttered.

Sam's smirk got larger.

"Okay," Dean said. "Whatever spell the kid recited from the book, it flooded this place with enough energy that the shades are able to physically interact with anyone who crosses into their established patterns. Sound about right?"

Sam nodded, leaning against the wall.

"So what do we do about it?"

Sam met his eyes… and shrugged.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face. "Super."

"Let's find Owen!" Gillian said. "We need to find him. He's an expert in this stuff! He'll know what to do! Let's find him, and he'll fix this. You said we would."

Dean met Sam's gaze with a questioning look. Sam shrugged again in response.

_Can't hurt._

Dean nodded, a brief jerk of his head. He doubted that Owen was an _Occult Expert_… but he would know what spell he used. And hopefully he would know how to stop it.

Dean turned to Gillian. "Let's go find Owen."

**


	9. Chapter 9

Title: Shades of Comfort

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

As always: All comments, good, bad, or indifferent are welcome.

* * *

**

Finding Owen turned out to be both easier and more difficult than Dean expected.

They'd walked maybe half a dozen halls, running into fewer and fewer shades as they got further from the morgue. As the number of shades lessened, they all began to relax, just a bit. And it wasn't long before Dean realized that wandering aimlessly through the halls was going to get them nowhere. They needed to think logically.

"So what would the nurses have done with unconscious patients?" Dean asked in general. "Apparently restrain them… for their own good."

Sam sent him a less than amused glance.

"Or shove things down their mouths," Gillian observed nervously.

"There is that." Dean agreed. Truth was, if that had happened to Owen, he would probably already be dead. Sam had been having trouble breathing within seconds. There was no way Owen would have survived that 'treatment' for this long. But the intubation thing might not have happened to Owen. Hospitals had a lot of treatments for different aliments.

"What else? What else might have happened?" Dean wracked his brain for things that happened in hospitals, especially hospitals that had functioned before modern medicine. The list he came up with had more possible nasty endings than good ones.

Gillian whimpered, apparently thinking along the same lines.

"Hey, c'mon, we're going to find him," Dean said, trying to smile at her.

Gillian looked up, surprised. "I know."

Dean glanced at Sam, who looked as confused as she was. "If you know, then why are whimpering?"

"I'm not whimpering."

And it was true… it was probably the first time all night she hadn't been crying.

Dean halted. "So then how was whimpering? I know I'm not crazy. Someone was whimpering –"

A soft, pathetic sob squeaked through the dark hall. "Okay, I know you had to have heard _that_," Dean said, irritated.

"Hear wha –" Gillian's voice cut off as Sam laid a hand on her arm.

Someone _was_ whimpering. Pretty steadily now.

Gillian's eyes flared. "Owen! That has to be Owen! _Owen_!" she screamed. "Where are you?"

She bolted for the sound. They stumbled through the dark after her, down the cluttered hall to a double door. As Gillian pushed the door open, Sam snagged Dean's hand – and his lighter. He tugged it over to a plaque near the door. It read: Enemas and Purges.

"Dude," Dean said, a little bit of honest horror in his voice. "I think we found something worse than intubation."

Sam nodded bleakly.

"Guys!"

They moved, catching up with Gillian who had halted when faced with the inky blackness of the room. Dean's lighter couldn't show them much, but they could see the dull shine of dirty tile on the walls and the floor. As they moved into the room, Dean could make out what looked like shower stalls…but with open seated stools in them, and dirty, rubber bags hanging on the walls.

"Okay, this place has officially creeped me out, Sam," Dean said, knowing his face was twisted in disgust. "Really and truly."

Sam seemed to agree, his own face tight and a little green.

"Owen!" Gillian called again. "Owen, are you in here?"

There was a half sob in reply. "Gilly?"

"Owen! Owen! We're coming!" and she pushed on, dragging Sam and Dean along in her wake.

They quickly found Owen, bound in one of those weird stools in a stall in the back. He was shaking and sniffling. "Please get me loose! Now! _Please_!"

They all started working on the straps, as Owen trembled like a rabbit next to the highway. His shaking was making the job of feeing him hard then it had to be.

"Dude, calm down," Dean said. "You still have your pants. It can't have been too bad."

"Just get me out of here before they come back!"

"It would be easier if you'd stop. jerking. around!" The buckle came free in Dean's hands.

He gave Sam a look, and Sam rolled his eyes, freeing the guy's feet.

Owen bounded out of the chair so fast he nearly fell, and Gillian was there to catch him. They clung to each other.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," Owen muttered over and over as Gillian wept against his shoulder.

"I thought I'd lost you to the darkness!" she sobbed.

"You almost did," Owen responded, sounding exhausted. "It was all I could do to hang on! There were so many of them, and all so _angry_!" He shuddered massively.

Dean pulled a face. "Oh, give me a break."

Sam stood up from his crouch, snapping his fingers to catch Dean's attention.

"What?"

He made the book sign again, and nodded at Owen.

"Do I have to talk to that guy?" Dean knew he was whining just a bit, but, damn it, it had been a long night and a bad one and he didn't want to talk to the Goth _occult expert_. He might just kill him, the mood he was in. He really might.

Sam gave him a familiar, irritated look. He pointed to his throat and glared.

Dean huffed. "Fine, but man, next case you have to do all the questioning."

Sam gave him a look so dry that the Serengeti looked lush in comparison.

"Okay, okay. Jeeze. If looks could kill." Dean quickly turned his attention to the little Goth who had caused all this mess. Sam looked like, the mood he was in, he might just kill him if he didn't get on with the questioning.

"Yo, Owen, can I get a minute of your time?"

The guy sniffed, stepping away from Gillian. His eyeliner had run from tears and sweat, and had become a heavy smudge across his face.

"Guy looks like a raccoon," Dean muttered to Sam.

Sam stomped on his foot.

"Ow! Dude!"

Sam just glared.

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "I'm just saying that it's just a little hard to take him seriously with him looking like an extra from the 'Dude Looks Like a Lady' video." Dean stared at the kid. "An ugly extra."

Sam shoved him, forcing him into Owen's eye line.

Owen's eyes flicked nervously between them. He was shivering. Gillian wrapped an arm around him.

Sam rolled his eyes.

"Okay, Owen," Dean started, trying to keep his tone light – but his palms itched with the urge to smack the kid upside the head for starting all this in the first place. "What do you know about the spell you used?"

Owen gulped, his eyes wide. "I didn't know it would do this! It wasn't supposed to do this!"

Sam scoffed.

Dean had to agree. "That spell did exactly what it was supposed to do, Owen."

"No!" Owen took an unconscious step back. "No, it was supposed to bring forth the ghosts – so we could document them. So people would stop laughing at me. That's all I wanted, I swear!"

"Well, whatever you _wanted_, this is what you did," Dean said implacably. "And now we need to know how to stop it."

"But I don't know how to stop it! Why don't we just leave?" Owen asked. He looked between them. "We should just get out of here."

"And leave this spell going so that any poor schlock who wanders in here gets to play the leading role in Misery? Yeah, that's an awesome idea."

"Well, what do you want me to do about it? I can't fight ghosts! Nobody can! They tied me up, man! There were tubes involved!" Owen shuddered like a dog shaking off water. "No. I'm getting out! And you should too." He grabbed Gillian's hand, marching past the brothers, intent on getting out while he could.

Until Sam reached out almost casually and snagged his collar. Sam, who was close to a foot taller than Owen and not in a good mood.

Dean grinned as Owen squeaked. It wasn't a friendly expression.

"Dude, my head hurts, my brother's a mute, and you started this whole thing. You're staying."

Owen's eyes darted between them. "I-I guess I can d-do that…"

**


	10. Chapter 10

Title: Shades of Comfort

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

As always: All comments, good, bad, or indifferent are welcome.

* * *

**

They had left the freaky bathroom as quickly as possible. Owen and Gillian were walking together a few feet behind Dean and his lighter, and in front of Sam.

The halls had been quiet for the last while. No shades had flickered past, no odd noises or lights, no sign that anything was wrong here. Briefly, Sam played with the idea that the spell had run it's course, that the shades had faded away on their own…but then he remembered the feel of their hands, the way the shadows had just wrapped around him, pressing him down, holding him still… the unearthly power of them – gentle, but solid and constant and _strong_.

No. There was no way this spell was going to end by itself. The door that had been opened was too wide, the amount of energy being feed to the shades too strong for it to just peter out. All his instincts, all his knowledge as a hunter, told him that they would have to close this spell, turn the fount of energy off at the source.

But to figure out how to do that he needed specifics. He needed to know about that spell that had been used.

Sam opened his mouth, felt the throb in the tissues of his esophagus, and snapped his jaw shut in frustration. How the hell was he supposed to ask Owen about the spell when he couldn't speak?

Hating every second of it, Sam picked up a pebble and tossed it, hitting Dean on the shoulder. Dean turned, irritated. He looked his question. Sam cocked his head, nodded at Owen and mimed opening the book again.

Dean rolled his eyes.

Sam arched his eyebrows, his face set.

Dean sighed.

"Owen," Dean said, sounded resigned. "Tell us about this spell book."

Owen shuffled uncomfortably. "There's not much to tell. I bought it off this guy on campus. I saw it in his bag, and asked him about it – I'm in Latin class, so I was curious, you know?" Gillian patted his shoulder. Owen seemed to take strength from her.

Sam tried not to be nauseous.

"I knew it was a spell book as soon as I opened it," Owen said, now sounding proud. "I know all about the Occult –" and Sam could swear he could hear the capital in Owen's voice " – and I knew what I'd found. When I found a spell for reviving the shades of the departed, I jumped, you know? It was perfect. A real chance to summon ghosts." He looked between them, his face holding all the energetic excitement of a puppy. "It was _so_ cool!"

Sam rubbed a weary hand over his face. He leveled an impatient look at Dean. _Move him on. Before I shoot him._

Dean gave him a look right back. _Shut up_. "Owen," he said out loud, "tell us about the spell. We need to know what you did, so that we can figure out how to stop it."

Owen shrugged. "I just followed what was in the book. Burned the herbs it said, repeated the words. The hardest part was drawing that symbol. It was so swoopy that it was hard to get the lines just right."

Swoopy lines… it sparked an old memory. Sam could remember studying different traditional sigils when he and Dean had but working that Tupla case in Texas. There had been a swirly, swoopy one that had caught Sam's eye… Sam smacked himself in the head. Dean jerked to a stop.

"Sam? You got something?"

Sam just looked at him. _No, I hit myself upside the head because it was fun._

"Knock off the sarcasm. Just tell me what you got."

Sam made the book sign again.

Dean frowned. "We need the book?"

Sam went over to the wall. He carefully outlined the sigil from the floor of the morgue – leaving it incomplete, but definitely recognizable.

Dean nodded. "The sigil, right."

Sam outlined the swooping curve of the lines with elaborate care. He drew a spiral over the glyph, ending with a tight circle in the middle.

Dean frowned. "The sigil's pulling something in?"

Sam tilted his head, nodding a little. _Close_.

Sam drew two lines arching from the broken sigil, with stuff exploding from between them – then ran his hand over the whole picture, wiping it out. He looked at them expectantly.

"A volcano?" Gillian guessed.

Owen looked at her. "Is it like charades?"

"More like _Pictionary_," she responded absently. "It's fun. You should play."

Sam fought the urge to smack them. Instead he turned to Dean, gritted his teeth and hissed, "Tupla."

Agony scrambled through his throat like a nest of fire ants. It tickled and burned and itched, and Sam fought the urge to cough knowing that that would only turn the ants into shards of glass.

Dean frowned. "Not smart, little brother."

Sam glared at him, one hand wrapped protective around his neck, as if he could somehow smother the fire from the outside. He moved the other hand questioningly. _Do you get it?_

Dean huffed at Sam before speaking. "I get it. It's like what happened in Texas, right?"

Sam nodded, relived.

"What?" Gillian asked.

Dean motioned at the half destroyed picture on the wall. "The lines are the energy coming _from_ the sigil. The energy you guys summoned. The spell calls up the energy, and the sigil works like a lens. It focuses that energy, feeding it back to fill the psychic ruts of the area. The sigil is like a faucet, pumping raw psychic energy into this place. We need to shut off the tap. Without the energy pouring in, the shades will just… evaporate. Good thinking, Sam."

Sam nodded, eyes closing briefly in relief. The burning sensation was fading again. He spit out another mouthful of saliva, not daring to even try to swallow after trying to speak. He wasn't going to wake that fire up again for anything.

"So how do we do that?" Owen asked, looking between them. "Turn off the tap?"

Sam debated, then mentally shrugged. So long as none of them needed 'medical assistance', they were all safe enough. There was no real need to get the civilians out to protect them. Besides, in quite a few spells, the caster who started them _had_ to be the one to shut them down. It had to do with the psychic 'fingerprint' that a caster left on the ritual. It was the same reason that two people couldn't trade off in the middle of an exorcism. Using a new reader meant that the ritual had to start over from the beginning.

Besides, the _Occult Expert_ had started this; let him clean up his own mess.

Sam stepped up to Owen – ignoring his slight flinch – and tapped him on the chest. Then he held up one hand, opening and closing the fingers like a puppet.

Owen stared at him with wide eyes. "I have to say something?"

Sam shrugged and bobbed his head at the same time. _Maybe_.

"You did start the spell," Dean joined in. "A lot of times only the caster can end the…casting…?"

He looked at Sam, eyebrows arched. Sam shrugged. Sounded good to him. The 'Occult Expert' should buy it.

Owen's hands fluttered nervously. "How do I know what to say?"

Sam rolled his eyes. He mimed opening the book again.

"I should look it up?"

"It should be in the spell, dumbass," Dean snapped. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He looked at Sam. "Remind me to thank Bobby _real_ good for this little errand he gave us." Then, to the group, he said, "C'mon. Let's go get that damned book."

**


	11. Chapter 11

Title: Shades of Comfort

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

As always: All comments, good, bad, or indifferent are welcome.

* * *

**

As they approached the old morgue the shades started showing up en-mass. Owen and Gillian jerked fretfully every time the shadows floated past; but Dean and Sam kept them moving at a brisk pace, ignoring the non-ghosts. It was past time to be done with this.

The shades were blocking the double doors of the morgue – not actively, but they were packed so tightly in the room that the doors were effectively plugged with shadowy forms. The morgue was the center of the energy – so there were more ruts filled, and therefore more shades. Some of them moved off, wandering into the dark the corridors; others went inward, slipping into the slowly churning, inky mass of spiritual energy.

"Oh, my God," Gillian half prayed, unconsciously clutching the crystal around her neck. Beside her, Owen shook his head.

"No. No way, man. We can't go in there. It's suicide!"

"We have to get the book," Dean growled. "And it's not like they're going to hurt you… just as long as you aren't hurt, they won't even see you. You'll be fine. Now move."

Then Dean hesitated. He glanced at then a little nervously. "And, uh, nobody cough or sneeze," he added. "Just to be on the safe side." Then he pushed Owen into the throng a step in front of him.

Sam took the more expedient rout. He took Gillian's hand and kept right on going, pulling her along in his wake.

Pushing into the mass of shades was like pushing through cobwebs – a feeling of soft, almost clingy resistance, then just a trace of sensation across the skin. The shades weren't cold – in fact, it felt almost clammy inside the dark swarm of them because the air wasn't moving. It was like being in really humid weather, but without the heat.

So it wasn't too bad, but it was unnerving… not so much the being among the shades themselves – they never even noticed the four living humans wandering through them – but the weird feeling of potential danger. Walking with these shades was like swimming with sharks; one whiff of blood, and there was no telling what could happen.

Gillian was crying again; silent, heavy tears dripping down her face as she and Sam emerged into a comparatively empty area at the center of the room. The shades didn't seem to be able to walk on the sigil; in fact, they moved away from it like it was a repelling magnet. Sam edged the sigil, carefully not disturbing the lines. He needed to see that book, to make sure they ended this spell the right way – or they really would be in trouble.

As Gillian and Sam moved around the sigil, Dean and Owen stumbled out of the shades. Owen was shivering, muttering under his breath.

Sam heard Gillian sniff disdainfully behind him.

Sam met Dean's eyes as Dean glanced at him, both checking on him and verifying the plan. Which was pretty simple – get the book, have Owen read the last of the spell, break the lines and end this. Sam nodded back and let go of Gillian's hand, moving the rest of the way around the glyph to where the brazier and book still sat; untouched and unbothered.

Sam shuddered slightly as he picked up the book. It was small, not much larger than his palm – and it was _old_. The heavy leather cover felt smooth and slick in his hands, almost warm. His face twisted at the damn near _living_ feel of it.

The pages weren't paper, they were vellum, hard and brittle. The edges had suffered, showing the ragged breakage of long years. The whole book smelled – musty and aged, with a subtle undertone of rotting flesh.

In short, the book felt _wrong_.

Sam felt like he was holding a bomb – one safe enough that it wouldn't go off without a blasting cap, but the raw potential for destruction made him edgy to be around anyway.

Taking a nervous breath, Sam began reading the pages. The spell that Owen had used was not complicated, taking only five pages of text. Sam was just finishing going through it as Dean and Owen joined him.

"This doable?" Dean asked, eyes trailing over the restlessly churning shadows.

Sam read through the last few lines: the lines that triggered the completion of the spell-casters will and ended the spell. To Sam's relief anyone could repeat the words and break the sigil – at least anyone who could speak.

Yeah, that wasn't at all frustrating.

Owen was almost standing on tip-toe, trying to look at the pages. Sam huffed, the handed him the book, pointing out the lines. Owen looked at them.

He glanced up at Sam, his eyes so earnest that Sam felt his desire to punch him lessen. Slightly. "These are the words I say to stop it?" he asked.

Sam nodded –

– and the world exploded into a shattered mass of white pain and black shadows –

– and then there was nothing.

**


	12. Chapter 12

Title: Shades of Comfort

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Still not mine. Any resemblance to any persons – living, dead, or wandering the earth in ghostly torment – are completely coincidental.

As always: All comments, good, bad, or indifferent are welcome.

* * *

**

"Sam!" Dean yelled, already moving as a figure lurched out of the veiling shadows, some kind of metal rack raised above his head.

Sam didn't even have time to turn as the guy swung, sweeping the metal into the back of his brothers head in a solid strike that simply dropped Sam like an abandoned doll.

Owen fell back, dropping the book, scrambling away from the guy.

The shades stopped. The slow, mindless churning stilled, and as one, those featureless faces turned toward Sam.

Sam, who was unconscious on the floor. Sam, who was in obvious need of medical attention.

Dean scrambled at the same time the horde moved. He stood over Sam, keeping the shades back with the iron pipe, watching them dissolve into specks as the pipe passed through them… but it was like trying to wave flies off of a body, they just kept swarming, black hands flickering and grabbing, trying to 'help'.

Behind him Owen was doing a little scrambling of his own. "Derek?" he gasped. "Derek, what the hell are you doing?"

Derek was prowling toward the smaller man, the camera tripod still raised. "You can't stop it," Derek growled, sounding crazed. "This is meant to be, Owen. I heard you. I heard what you said. You want to stop it! But you can't! This is the most amazing thing to ever happen, to ever be recorded! I'm going to go down in history as the man who caught the other side on tape – and you will not take that AWAY FROM ME!"

He swung the tripod, and Owen dodged, grabbing the metal. But that was the extent of Owen's fighting skills. Derek dropped the tripod and lunged at him. The large man had Owen hoisted off the ground and actually carried him the few steps to the wall. There he locked Owen in place, an arm across his throat, slowly strangling him.

"The whole time you were gone," he panted at the struggling man, "after Gilly left me here, alone and in the dark… and the ghosts just kept coming and coming… I was so scared. Then the camera came on, and I knew, I _knew_, that I was being given a gift. I was left here alone to document it all. You two weren't worthy. No… you were taken away as unclean and Gilly just ran. Like a frightened little girl," each word was punctuated by an increased pressure on Owen's windpipe. "But I _stayed_. And they let me stay, and I sat in the corner and then I figured it out. They _wanted_ me to record this! They want a record of their return! And you will not stop it!"

Dean could see Owen's eyes rolling to white. He could see the way his arms were slipping as his muscles gave in. Dean knew he was going to have to move now if he wanted to save Owen –

Which would leave Sam defenseless among the waiting shades.

"Damn it," Dean growled. "C'mon, Sam! Get up!" He nudged him with a foot, swinging at yet another three shades who were kneeling to grab his brother, and watched the shades evaporate. But there were plenty more where those had come from, all pressing in to get a hold on Sam.

Sam groaned.

"That's it, Sam!" Dean encouraged, swinging again. "Get up!"

Sam's eyes blinked open. Owen's eyes sagged shut.

Dean brushed back two more shades. Derek grinned manically. Cursing, Dean started to move, already knowing he was going to be too late.

Then Gillian stepped out of the darkness. In her hand was the sharpened piece of metal she'd picked up what seemed like hours ago.

She came up behind Derek, as silent and smooth as the shades – and plunged the shard of metal into Derek's side.

Derek shrieked, dropping Owen and clutching his bleeding flank. Gillian stepped back, scared but calm, her bloody, makeshift blade ready. She stared at him. "Who's the frightened little girl now, Derek?" she said in an almost conversational tone.

Derek screamed. Then charged her. Gillian stiffened, ready to fight. Dean moved, ready to back her.

Derek took two steps – then stopped moving. There was a shade, holding his arm. A second took his shoulder. Three more moved in from both sides. Derek's head whipped around, eyes flicking from blank face to blank face. "No," he breathed, as the shades moved in. "Not me! You need me! Remember? _No_!"

The last was a scream of pure terror as the shades picked him up, carrying him away. He disappeared into the black mass, his shout cut off like someone slamming a door.

Gillian knelt next to Owen. The shades were moving in on them, too. Others approached Sam who was still laying on the floor next to the sigil.

"Owen," Gillian said quietly, her voice full of tears.

Owen roused. His eyes widened as the black shapes moved inexorably closer. His gaze darted from one expressionless form to the next as he struggled to set up. As Gillian clutched his hand, Owen pulled a deep breath and shouted. "_Termino obducis; permissum preteritus sileo!"_

**

"_No!"_

Sam heard the scream. His body jerked in reaction, sending an agonizing shockwave through his skull. His stomach churned, his vision sparked black, but he was fully awake. Terror – even other people's terror – could do that.

Sam groggily pushed himself to his hands and knees. He looked around, trying to find Dean, to get a handle on what had happened to him – on what was happening now… but all he could see was black form after black form. From the number, he wondered if he had double, or even triple vision.

God, he hoped so. Otherwise, there was no getting away from that many shades…

"_Termino obducis; permissum preteritus sileo_!"

The words echoed though the room, and Sam recognized them instantly, his brain automatically translating despite the headache. Owen was closing the spell. Sam glanced down. He was right next to the sigil.

He reached out and scrubbed a hand through the chalk line, breaking the focal point of the energy.

There was a flare. Bright and white and blinding. The light burned through the room like the flash of an old fashioned camera, hot and somehow thick. It chased away the shades, unknitting them.

The shadows faded without a noise. The light receded, washing back through the room like a bight tide until it dulled back down into normality.

When the light faded, Sam blinked in the dark, trying to get his balance. His eyes felt sunburned, and spots danced through his vision. His head pounded and he felt nauseous. "Dean?" he tried to croak, but his throat locked up in a fiery knot before he could get the sound out. The pain in his throat echoed the pain in his head, and left him disorientated and woozy. He contemplated just laying down on the floor right where he was and worrying about everything after a little nap.

Dean's lighter flickered into life. He was going to have to refill it after tonight, Sam thought hazily.

"Sammy?" Dean called.

Sam tried to make a noise…failed to get even a squeak out this time, and resorted to clapping his hands.

Dean hurried over. He knelt down, running a practiced hand over the back of Sam's skull, and pulled away when Sam hissed, giving him a weak glare.

Dean's mouth tightened. "I think we match now," he observed. "Not too bad, but enough of a lump for a minor concussion."

Sam rubbed at his eyes. They were dry and still dazzled by the flash of light. The wandering bright patches in his vision made it even harder to focus past the headache.

"Is it over?" Gillian asked. She came a little closer, holding Owen's hand. Owen was sporting deep bruises over his neck.

Dean glanced at Sam. "No more shades. So I'm guessing it's over."

A scream echoed through the old building.

Gillian's eyes got wide.

"Derek," Owen muttered.

"Damn it," Dean hissed, tensing all over again. "This night is just never going to end." He stood up. "Let's go find him."

Dean pulled Sam up, holding him steady until he found his feet. Head down, breathing through the pain, Sam's eyes caught on something laying on the edge of the ruined sigil.

He pushed away from his brother, giving him a reassuring look and patting his shoulder.

Dean assessed him, then nodded, moving off to start leading the way.

Sam leaned over, his head swimming with the change of position, and snagged it – then followed the others out of the room.

**


	13. Chapter 13

Title: Shades of Comfort

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: Supernatural, its characters, settings, and/or plots are in no way belonging to me. Though I think I would have a lot more fun at my job if they did.

As always: All comments, good, bad, or indifferent are welcome.

* * *

**

Owen and Gillian moved competently enough behind Dean, with Sam watching their six. Not that Dean was really all that concerned anymore. The spell had been closed… and all the shades had vanished. Owen and Gillian should be fine.

It was the third guy, Derek, that had Dean worried. The dude had obviously blown a gasket at some point during the night. It could happen that way, especially with the wanta-sees – in Dean's experience, the people who were most desperate to lay eyes on the supernatural were the first ones to go ga-ga when the spooks actually did show up.

Derek had definitely gone round the bend. The whole situation had just burnt his mind out like an overheated engine, and they needed to find him, fast. They'd heard nothing from Squirrel-bait after the original scream – but Dean knew they'd have no problem locating him. They just had to follow the blood trail.

It led to a set of familiar-looking swinging doors.

"Oh, Christ," Dean muttered. He glanced at Sam, and received back an equally appalled look.

It was the surgical theater.

"You two stay here," he snapped at Owen and Gillian. The shades were enthusiastic about performing medical procedures… not competent. He'd learned that after what happened to Sam. If this had gone down the way Dean expected it had, then those two didn't need to see Derek like that. If there was anything recognizable left at all.

"What? No," Gillian snapped back. "We're going to see what happened to Derek."

"No," Dean said, equally as stubborn and twice as harsh. "You're going to wait right here. Take care of Owen. That's an order. Sam," he called, and the two of them slipped inside the room, leaving the 'kids' behind.

**

There was blood on the table. On the floor. On the walls. It was fresh – it dripped from the rusty steel surgical tools laying scattered on the floor where they had fallen when the shades evaporated.

But there was no sign of Derek.

Sam watched as Dean slipped further into the room. His lighter was still the best source of light, but Sam could make out a subtle, almost grimy glow beginning to seep in through cracks in the walls. The sun must be coming up. They'd been here all night.

He fought the urge to clear his throat – it itched and burned.

Dean turned a bit, nudging a bloody scalpel with the toe of his boot. "What do you think they did with him?" Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. The shades hadn't really had Derek long enough to do much…but then again, with the old scalpels in their hands it wouldn't have taken much time to do irrevocable damage. After all, the shades had almost killed him with their intubation tube in just the few minutes he'd been awake. With the kinds of surgical tools available in this room, they could have easily slit Derek open all the way down to the bone in just seconds.

Sam watched Dean move toward the far corner, looking for any sign of what could have happened to the camera man. Without much light, there wasn't any real way Sam could help in the search –

Something moved in the shadows behind his brother.

Sam opened his mouth to shout a warning, but his torn throat betrayed him – producing a sound made more of ash and fire than noise.

Dean turned to look at Sam, and the shape behind him moved, taking advantage of his distraction and darting forward.

It was Derek – shirtless and bloody and completely insane.

Everything happened at once. Sam jumped for the shape, but was too far away, and the form hit Dean, taking him to the ground. Dean cursed, turning in the fall so that he hit on his back, already reaching for whatever had body checked him. But Sam had arrived, grabbing Derek by the shoulders and heaving him back.

Derek twisted in his hands like a cat, swinging his upper body around, angry and agile. The move was so wild and unexpected that it threw Sam off balance. Derek turned on Sam, and he was _hissing_.

Sam took an automatic step back, catching himself and compensating for the sudden momentum coming toward him. In that moment he could see the wide, red gash that ran all the way from the wound Gillian had put in Derek's side, to the opposite ribcage. The shades must have begun some sort of surgery on him, the stab wound in his side fitting into their patterns for cutting. Sam blanched, fighting to hold Derek off, yet loath to really engage him in any real fight. One solid hit to the midriff could kill him, _eviscerating_him and leaving his guts on the floor.

The deep, precise slash across Derek's stomach gaped and pulled as he struggled, his mind so far gone that he wasn't even aware that he'd been all but disemboweled. Blood spurted and seeped from the raw wound.

His mouth forming a curse word that his voice couldn't supply, Sam fought to keep his grip on the man's bare, clammy shoulders, struggling to keep the wild man away from himself as much as Dean. Sam was vaguely aware of Dean scrambling to his feet, as Derek's hand swung around in a large and obvious strike.

Sam saw it coming. Problem was, Sam wasn't in a position to dodge without literally tearing Derek in half.

Shrieking wildly, Derek plunged the long, thin, rusty pair of Metzenbaum scissors into Sam's side – low and toward the back.

Sam screamed, the sound as thin and sharp and rusty and painful as the blades that sank into him. He felt Derek tug at the scissors, but they were caught and wouldn't come loose.

"Sam!"

Dean had made it to his feet. He slammed his pipe into the back of Derek's skull, and Derek dropped like a rock.

Sam did too; falling to his knees, pushing both hands against the thin piece of steel still wedged in his side.

Dean dropped down next to him, gently prying at his fingers, already talking. "It's okay, it's okay. Let me see."

Sam dropped his hands and Dean tugged aside the bulk of jacket and shirts. A few feet away, Derek lay, not even twitching. Dean's hands hesitated.

"What the hell?"

Dean shifted something, and it hurt, it really _really_ hurt, but no where near as much as it should have. "Hold on, Sam. The scissors caught on something…"

Dean pulled, a motion that Sam felt all the way from the base of his neck to the tops of his toes – a hot, electric pulse. Sam tried to shout again, but his voice was now completely gone.

Dean cast the scissors aside, their cutting edges stained red, and then pulled again. This time Dean held up the little spell book. The one Sam had seen sitting forgotten in the morgue. The one that he'd forgotten he'd stuffed into his jacket pocket.

Dean held it out with raised eyebrows. Sam took it with shaking hands. Dean shook his head and went back to checking the wound.

"Well, it's deep and it's nasty, but no where near as deep as it could have been," Dean finally pronounced. "It's right over your kidney, Sam. A couple of inches deeper and you wouldn't be walking out of here. As it is, I think you'll live." Dean sounded relived and tired. "Let's get you out of here and cleaned up, huh? I think I'm done with this place. And with doing Bobby any more favors."

Sam nodded, bemused. He stared at the little book in his hands – the one that now had the thin, perfect puncture all the way through it. It had blunted the force of Derek's blow, and taken that couple of inches that had kept the scissors from reaching his kidneys.

The vilest spell book ever written… and it had just saved Sam's life.

**


	14. Chapter 14

Title: Shades of Comfort

Author: ghost4

Disclaimer: I don't own them. And yet, here we are. Huh. The world's a funny ol' place, isn't it?

Author's Note: One of my chat buddies wanted another scene. And I do want to write it… but it didn't really fit in the fic as it is (sorry, hun.) If anyone else feels that something's missing, let me know.

As always: All comments, good, bad, or indifferent are welcome.

* * *

**

In the end it was simple.

Sam leaned against the wall, fighting a slow cycle of pain – first it would well up from his side, making him gasp, which would make his throat tighten up and _it_ would throb, making his breath hitch, which set off his side again – and watched tiredly as Dean told Owen and Gillian to clean up and hide the spell equipment, then call for help.

"Tell them that you broke in to go ghost hunting. Trespassing's only a misdemeanor. Tell them that a couple of homeless guys jumped you. They're the ones who hurt Derek – not you, Gillian. You never stabbed him. Understand?" Dean waited for her wide-eyed nod. "Do _not_ tell them about the shades or about us." He continued. "No one will believe you anyway, and you'll end up locked in a place not much different than this one."

Gillian bit her lip. "What if Derek tells them what happened?"

Dean shrugged. Beside him, Sam pushed harder against the sluggishly bleeding wound in his side, hoping the support might ease the pain. "So what?" Dean said. "If he lives and he talks, he tells them a couple of strange guys jumped him – which is the same story you've told them. If he goes on about the shades and the spell… _he_ gets locked away in a place not too different than this one. Either way, you two are safe."

Owen swallowed. "We can do that. We can keep our mouths shut."

"Good," Dean snapped. "And you better keep away from the magic crap, too, Owen. Next time, we might decide you're part of the problem."

They wouldn't, but Owen was way too unstable to deal with magic… he'd wind up getting himself killed eventually. Better scared then dead.

Owen paled. But he nodded. "No more, I promise."

Dean nodded back. He put a hand on Sam's shoulder, ready to take his weight if he should stumble. "Okay. Give use three minutes to get to the car, and then call. Have a good life, guys. C'mon, Sam."

And that had been that.

**

_TWO DAYS LATER_

**

Dean was munching on a ham sandwich as Bobby poured over the tiny book.

"Interesting, ain't it," Dean observed – and Sam winced at what _he_ could observe in Dean's open maw.

Bobby glanced up, glaring. "Would have been a little more interesting if you hadn't perforated it."

"Better it than me," Sam croaked, spinning a kitchen chair to sit on it backwards. He was getting better, both his throat and his side – but he still had some pain if he leaned against his back. He'd spent the first night straddling a motel chair much like he was now – hunched over the back while Dean stitched up his side, unable to make a noise because of his torn throat.

Now his side was healing and his voice was back, even though he sounded like a fourteen-year old with a bad case of strep. He and Dean had crashed at Bobby's for the week, anyway. There was no question of going on another hunt until Sam was up to par.

Bobby had the grace to look slightly contrite. "True. And it was a damn good thing that that boy chose the spell he did. There's shit in here that would have been like setting off a spiritual a-bomb."

Dean swallowed. "What are you going to do with it?"

"Lock it up," Bobby said, slamming the book closed. "Stick it in a curse box and forget it's here."

Dean looked surprised. "You're not going to burn it?"

Bobby shook his head slowly. "If this book exists, then so might the other three copies. If someone should happen to find one and use a spell out of it, then it's best that we have our own copy. That way we'll know what we're up against."

Bobby set the tiny volume on the table. It's blank, yellowed cover seeming vaguely malevolent – like a sign warning of the plague.

Dean eyed it warily. "I'm not sure if I like the idea of it being in this house, Bobby," he said quietly.

"Didn't say I was going to keep it in the house, boy. Do I look stupid to you?"

Sam felt something in him unknot. "Good," he said in his ragged voice. "That thing's nasty." He felt it every time he touched it, a undercurrent of hatred and fear that radiated from the pages like a low-grade fever. And like a fever, holding it for too long made him feel shivery and overly sensitive.

Bobby nodded his understanding. "I'll keep it safe – and locked away. You boys just keep your eyes open for the other copies."

"And isn't that just a thought to keep me awake at night," Dean groused. "The idea of one of these things in the hands of someone competent. Thanks for that image, Bobby." He made a face at what was left of his sandwich, and got up to toss it in the trash.

"Wait, let me check – well, no, it ain't exactly in my job description to make you feel all warm and secure, now is it?" Bobby sneered. "And quit wasting good food."

"Good may be an overstatement," Dean replied mournfully. "How old was that ham?"

"Bobby," Sam interjected, nodding at the book. "Do you really think there are more of those things out there? After all this time?"

"Probably not," Bobby admitted, but his expression was guarded, almost nervous. "It has been a long time. They were most likely destroyed."

"But what if?" Dean asked, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter. "What do we do if the other copies _are_ still out there?"

Bobby looked at them both. "We hope to hell that nobody ever finds them."

Sam and Dean shared a look – Dean tried to look like he was unimpressed with Bobby's words, but his eyes seemed almost drawn to the volume on the table and he swallowed. Sam's own eyes wandered back to the inert, little book. Such an unassuming package to contain such treacherous knowledge.

Sam watched Bobby put the book into the curse box, knowing that Bobby was probably right. The other copies were probably long since destroyed. Almost certainly the one sitting in front of them was the last one in existence. And it would be safely locked away in its curse box, and, with luck, would never be opened again.

But there was a little voice in the back of Sam's head, counting up the amount of 'if's and 'probably's and 'hope's… and add in the Winchester luck…

Bobby locked the box.

And Sam really hoped that would be the last of it…

But hope had never gotten him very far.

*

~end


End file.
